


Hell's Kitchen

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Gen, Hell, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: Written for Crowley's Christmas Fic Exchange.Original Prompt: Crowley's Christmas - it could be in Jingle Hell or in a vacation spot of his choice and with another character or two!
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Hell's Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JJ1564](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ1564/gifts).



“You did what?”

The Winchesters stared incredulously at the shamefaced angel that stood before them, his hands clasped together in contrition.

“I lost a bet with Crowley,” Castiel mumbled into his chest.

“And…” they prompted.

“And he’s invitedyoutoChristmasdinnerinHell…” Castiel responded, gabbling rapidly in the hope that doing so would make his words less unwelcome.

It didn’t work.

“He’s invited us to Christmas dinner in Hell?” Sam parroted angrily.

Castiel stared dolefully at the brothers and nodded.

“I am not eating freaking Christmas dinner in Hell,” Sam snapped, looking across at Dean for support; “who knows what they’d eat down there, the sadistic bastards!”

“Suppose it’d save us cooking,” Dean replied with a shrug.

“And because I lost the bet, I’ve got to wait on the three of you,” Castiel sighed.

“Hold on,” Sam replied; “if that was for you losing the bet, what would have happened if you’d won it?”

“Then Crowley would have come here for Christmas and you two would have waited on us.”

“Sorry,” Castiel added in a small voice, “Crowley said he wanted to spend Christmas with his two best friends in existence, but he guessed you might need a little … coercion. Hence the bet.”

“Best friends?” Sam snapped angrily; “I don’t want to be his friend; I can only just stand being his enemy! All I want to do is stab the sanctimonious little shit in the face!”

Castiel nodded. “You should hear what some of his other friends want to do to him. Taking that into account, I believe you and Dean still qualify in the best friends category.”

Dean decided it was time to step in when he noticed Sam’s hands balling into fists and the tell-tale vein start throbbing in his temple.

“Okay,” Dean announced, barging Sam aside, in an attempt to quell the threatening seismic explosion. “So, apparently we’re having Christmas dinner with King Douchenut in Hell. Good times; what do we need to take?”

Castiel thought for a moment. “I believe it is customary to take a gift?”

“What do you give the King of Hell for Christmas?” snorted Sam; “I mean, what the heck does he like?”

“Well, so far as I know, the only things he loves are Scotch and himself,” replied Dean.

“We could buy the egotistical dick a mirror, but he wouldn’t show up in the damn thing,” Sam grumbled.

“No problem,” Dean countered; “I’ve got a bottle of Bobby’s latest brew, the really classy one,” he added. “He fermented the potato peelings for a whole week before he distilled it.”

“He might like something for Growley and Juliet,” Castiel suggested; “for all his faults, he does love his hellhounds.”

“Good call,” Dean agreed, “I saw some squeaky toys in the pet store downtown yesterday.”

“You want to buy a squeaky toy for a hellhound?” Sam replied in disbelief.

“No, I’m going to buy two squeaky toys for two hellhounds,” Dean retorted; “I’m all for taking something for the hellhounds to chew on – less likely that they’ll try to chew on us then.”

Sam couldn’t fault the logic.

“So, we’re really doing this?” Sam sighed; “we’re really having Christmas dinner in Hell?”

“So it seems,” Dean replied.

“Have you any idea how freaking inappropriate that is?” 

“Sam, we’re not exactly the poster boys for appropriate,” Dean sighed; “Christmas in Hell is just one more entry on a long list of weird, illegal and inappropriate!”

Sam wondered whether slapping an angel would feature anywhere on that list.

Xxxxx

The Winchesters weren’t entirely sure if Crowley’s dining hall was festive or festering as they took their seats at the dinner table. The festoons around the monolithic grey mantle looked suspiciously like intestines, and they really didn’t want to dwell on what the baubles were made of.

Dean peered at Sam over the skeletal black candelabra in the middle of the table as Crowley gestured them to their seats.

“Moose, Squirrel, take a seat,” he smirked; “our waiter will be here shortly with champagne to start us off.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Dean grunted; “this is for you … happy Christmas.” Dean thrust the bottle and two squeaky bananas into Crowley’s waiting hands.

“Ah, thank you boys. Bobby’s best gut-rot - how nice,” Crowley observed, staring at the bottle in poorly-disguised disgust. “The drains down here have been blocked for weeks; this should clear them a treat!”

Dean rolled his eyes in Sam’s direction.

“I don’t know what the hounds will make of these,” Crowley continued; “they’re more used to their chew toys screaming than squeaking.” Nevertheless, he threw the toys into an empty space behind him and they were snatched up in mid-air by two enthusiastic and invisible sets of jaws.

It was at that moment that Castiel, resplendent in trenchcoat and white frilled apron emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of champagne flutes and, with a shocked squawk, promptly took a flying header over an invisible obstacle chewing a squeaky banana.

Crowley frowned; “tsk. Can’t get the staff these days.”

Picking himself up with a groan, Castiel shook his head, dislodging shards of broken glass and wiped droplets of champagne off his nose. 

“Go and get the bloody food, Feathers,” Crowley snapped impatiently, as Castiel stood, rearranging himself.

“So,” he turned to the Winchesters; “do you want breast or leg?” 

Dean glanced around the room, very aware of the faint groans and screams that were a permanent soundtrack in Hell. He didn’t even want to think about what went on in Hell’s Kitchen.

“We are talking about a turkey, aren’t we?” 

What d’y think?” Crowley snorted; “I could always pluck and roast that idiot angel for you if you prefer.”

“Are there any other choices?” Sam asked weakly.

Crowley sighed heavily. “HEY FEATHERS, check with this kitchen and see if they’ve got anything else for a herbivore like Moose here.”

The three men settled into an awkward silence as Castiel disappeared into the kitchen.

“So, do you usually celebrate Christmas here … like, in Hell?” Dean asked, in an attempt to make conversation.

“What sort of barbarians do you think we are down here?” Crowley exclaimed; “of course we celebrate Christmas. All the little demons love to see Santa and his reindeer roasting on an open fire. They even sing songs about it.

“Isn’t that supposed to be chestnuts, you know, roasting on an open fire?” Sam asked.  
“The trouble with you, Moose,” Crowley announced wearily; “is you lack imagination. I mean, who wants poxy chestnuts when you can have a nice hunk of venison and sauted Santa?”

Castiel emerged from the kitchen once again, this time carrying a steaming tureen and made an exaggerated point of stepping over exactly where he believed the invisible hellhound to be. There was a high-pitched squeal as he trod on her tail.

Crowley scowled, and palmed his face in disbelief, watching as the beleaguered angel placed the massive tureen of brussels sprouts on the table, and turned on his heel to retreat back into the kitchen.

“That’s a lot of sprouts,” observed Dean, nose wrinkling with disdain.

Crowley stared at the green mass in the middle of the table. “Well, it is Hell,” he replied; “most people think that’s where they belong.”

“It’ll be Hell in the bunker tomorrow if Sam eats that lot,” Dean groaned, ignoring the weapons-grade bitchface Sam shot in his direction.

Bowls of carrots followed, delivered by Castiel, sporting the harried, slightly constipated frown of someone who had no idea what he was doing. These, in turn, were followed by roast potatoes, parsnips and a jug of something that Dean really hoped was gravy. 

As Castiel scurried back and forth around the table, everyone was too polite to note that Juliet had decided that Castiel’s left pant leg was a far more interesting chew toy than a squeaky banana. 

On the face of it, this was far preferable to what Growley was trying to use his right leg for.

The shredded remains of Castiel’s pant leg flapped loosely around his left knee as he placed down a silver platter of something which, in poor light, could pass as meat. Specifically the kind you’d find lying on the side of the highway. 

“Yours is just coming,” he announced to Sam gruffly; “it’s taken some time to prepare – vegetarian cuisine isn’t big in Hell. I don’t think they really understand the concept.”

As if to reinforce the point, Juliet abandoned Castiel’s pant leg and decided his ankle was far more satisfying fare. 

“Well boys”, Crowley declared, waving his crystal tumbler of amber liquid around expansively as he speared a couple of slices of the mystery meat with his fork; “tuck in – Merry Christmas!”

Dean took a deep breath, glancing nervously at Sam, before convincing himself that he’d probably eaten worse at some of the diners they’d visited. 

In for a penny, in for a pound …

Xxxxx

LATER…

“Well, let’s never do that again;” Dean grumbled, never happier to be safely back at the bunker.

“Amen to that,” snorted Sam.

“And Cas, next time you lose a bet,” Dean snapped; “don’t involve us!”

“I assure you that I will never again be fooled into gambling with Crowley,” Castiel replied glumly. “I should have known when Crowley said he had the fourteen of spades that he wasn’t playing fair.”

“He’s a freaking demon, numbnut,” Dean snapped.

“Anyway, we survived,” Dean sighed, sinking into a chair; “I’m not even going to think about what that meat was, if it was turkey, it wasn’t like any freaking turkey I’ve ever tasted before. Ugh.”

Sam sunk down next to him.

“Mind you, Dean continued, “all things considered, I still think I’d rather have had mine than yours,” he mused.

“Can it, Dean,” Sam moaned nauseously; “I don’t want to think about it.”

Dean grinned; “it’s your own fault for being so fussy - I’m so glad I didn’t end up with the nut cutlet.”

xxxxx

end


End file.
